Lingonberry

Old, pretty little villages have fascinated me since childhood, but maybe I romanticize villages too much. I was born and grew up in bustling London, which is alright if you don't actually mind the bustling part.

We lived in a shabby two bedroom flat overlooking a big garden and some other shabby-looking flats. I do think it was our drab location that had me wishing for the beautiful, green farmland dotted by secluded hamlets and villages.

The quiet, winding roads hemmed by delicate flowers and plants and no traffic at all ...

Stone houses and cottages overgrown with vines and lichen and the windows and doors are all slightly off-center because the architecture isn't perfect ...

Now I'm beginning to ramble about the countryside, sorry about that. The only reason I mention villages is because at this time I am actually heading to one. My parents finally decided they're exhausted of city life about as much as I was.

One bright morning a few months ago we all sat around the table for black pudding, bacon and eggs and my dad excitedly announced we were going to move to a tightly-knit village called Lingonberry situated about a two-hour drive away.

Strangely there really isn't much to be found on Lingonberry. My parents considered several nice places until some bloke in a funny yellow hat behind a counter overheard them talking and suggested this Lingonberry place "everyone seems to forget about" and handed them a little pamphlet of unspecified origin. As it goes, what ends up happening the next few years of my life will solely be because of this pamphlet and a pin on a map.

I suppose it sounds a lot worse when I put it that way.

"We're getting much closer now, Minnie," Mum says with a sort of singsong voice. "How's Lottie doing with you?"

Lottie is our three-year-old Beardie with a tendency for car jitters. She's been surprisingly restful for an hour or so, sometimes waking from a pleasant dream and peeking out the window at grazing sheep and cattle.

"She's been alright," I say, patting her fluffy bear paws.

We pass more pastures and paddocks and rolling hills of farmland when suddenly we're in a more forested area down a side road.

Towering, feathery pines line the length of the road, twisting and curving around grassy knolls and stumps. After another minute we drive by a dirt clearing on the side of the road, where a big wooden sign is leaning on a tree. It reads in sun-bleached blue and green:

Entering the Village of

LINGONBERRY

Est. 1599

Under the words there is a discolored illustration of a lingonberry cluster sitting on a patch of peat moss. The sign looks long neglected, but it's still a charming welcome in a way.

The tree cover finally lessens and the vast blue sky appears once again, and I finally see cottages and half-timbered homesteads popping up from beyond the hill.

Weathered stone pathways and steps are fringed by multicolored flower beds and weeds, and vines crawl up gable walls while the moss patches have claimed residency in little nooks and crannies. Every single house looks like it's jumped right out of a centuries-old fairytale.

Some people are working outside their homes tending to their front gardens and chopping wood. As the car winds along up the path, everyone sort of drops what they're doing to smile and wave to us, some of them even starting to walk after the car.

I'll admit, it's a bit unsettling seeing a crowd of smiling faces following after you like a bleeding horror movie, but who am I to judge? Maybe it's been awhile since they've seen a new face, and they aren't doing any harm.

We reach our street, Primrose Way, and stop in front of our little cottage, number 26.

26 Primrose Way.

There isn't a garage or a proper driveway, just an overgrown cobblestone path leading from the edge of the garden to the house. A similar, narrower path leads right up to the door.

Lottie is quite eager to leap from the car and roll around in the grass and eat bugs, so I let her out first and she dives onto the ground.

"It's even lovelier in person," Mum says. "Minnie, help with the luggage?"

I get out and glance down the street, when I'm startled by something in the corner of my eye. Poking out from the bushes next door is a big, unblinking pair of hazel eyes and a cheeky grin. The mystery creature then rises from the bushes.

It's a girl, probably around my age, staring right at me.

She has the brightest, blondest hair I have ever seen— the color of flax. It's stringy and knotty and springing out in all directions like it hasn't been brushed in ages.

The girl then comes towards me with a sort of swaying glide.

"Hello!" she says. "I'm Edith E. I live the next door down and you're my best friend now."

"Hi, I'm Minnie. Erm... thank you?"

There's a lot more to take in about Edith, now that's she's right there. I realize she still hasn't blinked since I first saw her, and her hands, face and feet are stained green.

Lottie sees Edith as she rounds the corner of the house and barrels towards us, barking and jumping around in circles excitedly.

"Ah! You didn't mention you have a sweet little doggy, Minnie!" she shrieks in delight.

"Well, I mean, we've only just met a moment ago and I didn't really—"

"Can I help you unload? I love helping."

And before I can say well, only if you like, really, she stops scratching Lottie's head and skips over to the car.

Dad looks up from a pile of bags when he hears Edith shuffling around the side of the car, having a look inside.

"Made a friend already, I see!" he says with a grin, looking from Edith and then to me. I shrug bemusedly, because that's the only proper response to what I'm witnessing.

Edith and I spend some time heaving boxes and suitcases from the trunk and lugging them all through rooms, before we settle down for afternoon tea and biscuits.

But this lasts for only a short time as I finish off just one measly biscuit and Edith is itching to give me the "Lingonberry Welcome Home Tour".

"You're going to love it here, Minnie. It's brilliant, I'll show you all the best places," says Edith, and she happily hoists herself onto the creaky kitchen counter. "Almost done?"

I don't think I'll ever match her energy, but it doesn't bother me. It would be nice to have a quick tour before supper so I pack up the remaining biscuits in a satchel and lead Edith out of the front door, after which she promptly takes the lead and I follow her down the side of the road.

We make a few stops, the first being a quaint pastry shop on the corner of Birch Street and Broomswick Place. It's my favorite shop, mentions Edith, you should try the Strawlingonberry Danish.

The what now? I think, and when we get inside I feel my jaw drop almost instinctively at the stunning array of pastries and other baked goods. "Oh, wow!"

"Almost everything here is made with lingonberry," explains the shopkeeper, "it's the village's main crop. You'll enjoy it all!"

"Look, Minnie, this is the Strawlingonberry Danish I told you about."

She points to the oozing Danish pastry behind the glass display. It's got strawberry and lingonberry jams combined with vanilla custard— and it's a Lingonberry top pick. That's what I end up buying and it actually tastes every bit as delicious as it looks.

As expected I only take a single bite of the Danish before Edith drags me out of the shop to venture somewhere else. She shows me a glimpse of the community garden in the center of town, and a bookshop and a farmer's market and the school and an old water mill— it's after that I begin to lose track of everything, but I'm confident she's shown me every building in the village.

She excitedly points out the library once we get to it. "This is my second favorite place because it has almost any book imaginable, and stray cats," says Edith, and she takes a bag of fish-shaped treats from her sweater pocket. "I like to feed them."

Pspspspspspsps and chchchchch sounds lure them out from the shadows and they flock us, meowing very loudly for food and pets. Edith opens the treat bag and dumps me a handful so I can join in. We hold out our hands and the cats pile over our arms like squirming noodles.

Another cat suddenly emerges from a small hedge. It's a very brown cat with bright chartreuse eyes and it lets out a deep mrrrooww. I kneel down carefully so my skirt doesn't touch the muddy ground and offer the rest of my treats.

Without any warning, Edith quickly grabs my wrist and jerks me to my feet.

"Edith! What was that for?" I say.

"You must never feed that cat, Minnie, it's too dangerous! It's time to leave." She pulls me away from the cats and we leave the library behind, and we keep going until we round a corner.

"How exactly is it dangerous?"

"I've seen what it can do."

If that wasn't ominous enough, she proceeds to say nothing else about it; and I'm not going to ask. We walk back up to Primrose Way and Edith seems to be back to normal after a few minutes of chittering to starlings and picking flowers.

Once we reach her place, she stops me and gestures to the house.

"You can visit whenever you'd like! The door is always open— I mean, why not come tomorrow for breakfast? I have many things to show you." Then Edith gives me a tight hug and glides away inside.

I didn't expect to make a friend so quickly, and by quickly I mean immediately upon my arrival, and I also didn't really have a choice but this is perfectly fine. So Edith took me in and I've already met some of the locals. The whole thing with the cat was strange, but at least I know not to feed that one.

In the comfort of my own house, I tell my parents (and Lottie, too) all about my day over supper and they're just as happy to see I'm adjusting nicely.

With the big to-do out of the way now, I can officially start my new life in Lingonberry tomorrow morning with a nice breakfast and a good friend.